


Matinee

by Argyle



Category: Good Omens
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-14
Updated: 2004-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-11 19:49:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12942459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: A visit to the cinema.





	Matinee

**Author's Note:**

> This is a mercifully short trifle of a "follow-up" to my GO Old West fics.

Aziraphale sighed lightly, clasping his hands behind him as they exited the theatre. “Well, that was--”

“Absolute rot,” Crowley broke in. “I can’t _believe_ what passes for cinema these days.”

“Actually, I found it to be a true and accurate portrait of the times.”

Crowley leered. “A true and accurate portrait? Are you mad?”

Aziraphale shrugged.

“I somehow seem to recall significantly less singing and dancing, as it were.”

“Oh?” The angel narrowed his eyes in thought, dashing his tongue across his lips. “I say, that rather reminds me of a certain autumn evening spent in a saloon in which you...” he trailed off, catching Crowley’s eye. “Well, it’s not yet been a century since it happened, my dear. You really oughtn’t to have forgotten it so soon, though I suppose bourbon does tend to have that effect on one.” He cleared his throat, finishing quietly, “From time to time.”

Crowley set his jaw. “At least I can carry a tune, which is more than can be said of Mr. Eastwood,” he replied with a shudder, motioning vaguely towards the Bentley’s locks.

“He did his best, I’m sure.” Aziraphale arched a brow, nodding confidentially. “It _is_ rather odd that he would have such trouble mastering the Middle C, though.”

Wincing and looking quickly over his shoulder, Crowley opened the door and sat down inside. He continued as Aziraphale slid onto the seat beside him, “Yes, well, correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think they even painted _one_ bloody wagon in the entire film.”

“As I remember, they didn’t simply go around painting them at the time, either,” Aziraphale said placidly. “In fact, even the gilded coaches were downright contemptible for their want of upkeep, not to mention the dogcarts.”

“Naturally.” Crowley’s lips curled into a smirk. “And I presume that you’ve considered the filmmakers’ use of polymorphous matrimonies as perverse plot-devices?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale hesitated, tugging anxiously at his cuffs. “As I said, it was an acc--, er, scrupulous depiction.”

“Of what, may I ask? A quaint, tourist-friendly district of old Gomorrah, perhaps?”

“You needn’t put it _that_ way, my dear. I was merely--”

“Well.” Crowley bristled, setting his key into the ignition; the Bentley roared to life with a second wave of his hand. “There was less dancing in the Old West, to be sure, and I stand by my previous assertion about the singing.”

Aziraphale chuckled softly. “And to whom shall we give credit for the invention of the musical?”

Crowley scoffed half-heartedly, grumbling something about the oppressive qualities of American entertainment before glancing over the rim of his sunglasses with finality. “It was a joint effort.”

Tapping his fingertips in time against the dashboard, Aziraphale smiled. “Of course.”


End file.
